


Plot Bunnies

by HashtagLEH



Series: Little Snippets [1]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Iron Man (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Mob, Alternate Universe - No Powers, Alternate Universe - Police, Alternate Universe - Serial Killers, Autopsy Technician Tony Stark, Avengers Family, Avengers team - Freeform, BAMF Tony Stark, Bucky Barnes's Metal Arm, Canon Divergence - Captain America: The First Avenger, Canon Divergence - Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Canon Divergence - Iron Man 1, Don't Take Tony's Stuff, Dubious Ethics, Dubious Morality, Established Relationship, M/M, Merchant of Death Tony Stark, Multi, Police Officer Steve Rogers, Police officer Bucky Barnes, Polyamory, Pre-Iron Man 1, Protective Bucky Barnes, Protective Tony Stark, Serial Killer Tony Stark, The Avengers Are Good Bros, Threesome - M/M/M, Torture, Winter Soldier Bucky Barnes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-16
Updated: 2019-02-16
Packaged: 2019-10-29 09:10:59
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 18,657
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17805200
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HashtagLEH/pseuds/HashtagLEH
Summary: Or, story ideas that I totally adore but will probably never flesh out to be a full-length fic. All ideas are free for you to use, just let me know if you decide to adopt any. ;)I'm also marking it as complete, though if I have another that falls under this category it will be added.1.) Clint/Tony - Iron Man AU where Clint (under SHIELD) goes to spy on Tony before the events of the movie2.) Tony/Steve/Bucky - "Merchant of Death" mob boss Tony Stark will stop at nothing to find Steve3.) Tony/Steve/Bucky - Tony kills bad people because he can't stand the idea of them getting off easy, but he never thought he would become a serial killer, keeping it a secret from his two police officer boyfriends4.) Bucky & Clint - Clint was created by Hydra, using Bucky. They never wanted a father/son bond to occur, but they couldn't stop it when it did.5.) Steve/Bucky/Sam - Steve has amnesia after coming out of the ice, so SHIELD pretends he's an average Joe and sends him on his way. And then Bucky Barnes comes into his place of work and memories start shifting...6.) Steve/Tony - What if Steve was in the cave with Tony in IM1?





	1. IronHawk pre-IM1 AU

Tony is a dramatic person – he knows this. Embraces it, even. Being a narcissistic businessman with a wallet larger than the government’s has its perks to be sure, and eccentricity is something he can very easily get away with. The dramatics of course go along with that, and the added title of ‘playboy’ to his image has people dropping their guard around him so that he can more easily get what he wants, whether it’s his terms in a business deal or just the right person following him into bed.

Still, even for all his dramatics, he is practical, and he’s never believed that the spit-takes in the movies when someone is surprised is all that realistic. Do they really have so little control over their mouths that if they’re surprised they’d spray food or drink all over the person seated across from them?

But, he thinks he may have to reevaluate his thoughts on the matter, because when his eyes fall on the next résumé in the stack Pepper is making him go through, he is so surprised that his mouth falls open just slightly – just enough for the coffee he’d just drunk to dribble out. It’s not the spit-take most common in movies, but those people are also supposedly not trained to keep masks in place since they were born. His mouth dropping open is probably the equivalent of a spit-take in other people.

The résumés were all scanned and reviewed by JARVIS first, the better to pilfer out anyone not up to being his personal trainer and who were only applying to get close to Tony Stark. So, he has to wonder if this one being allowed through is a joke or JARVIS’ understanding of his creator bleeding through.

Because right there, under Objective, this man wrote, “ _My objective is to find a rich sugar daddy who’ll spoil me rotten.”_

 _It wasn’t odd for someone to want him that way – it was par for the course. What was odd was that someone was actually putting it in their supposedly professional_ résumé. It was something Tony himself would do, if he didn’t already have a job and was a billionaire anyway.

Curiously, he looked over the rest of it, wanting to know if the trend would continue through the whole thing or if it was just in the objective section to catch his attention.

Amazingly, the same attitude was there through the whole thing, and Tony couldn’t help laughing hysterically as under Skills and Hobbies the guy wrote, “I am devilishly handsome. If I were a spy, I’d be so much better than James Bond because someone would see my face and immediately give up everything they know just for the chance to spend the night with me.” And then, at the end of the section, seemingly as an afterthought, the guy put, “I can hold my breath for six minutes.” That’s it – no elaboration on that one, but based on the attitude of the rest of it, he could guess the reason for that one.

By the time he got to the end, where he said he was going to bring in a Rubiks cube to show him how good his fingers were, Tony had long since decided that he had to at least check this guy out. Especially because, even for all the joking and innuendoes littered throughout, there were actually listed _real_ qualifications. Never mind that next to “circus performer” was the added comment “so I’m obviously _really_ flexible” in parentheses.

“JARVIS, I need you to send an email for me,” Tony said with a grin, setting the résumé to the side to start a ‘maybe’ pile.

“Of course, Sir,” JARVIS said, sounding smug.

“You sneaky little A.I.,” Tony said, more proud than annoyed. “I’m going to tentatively say you made a good choice with this one.”

“And which one would that be, Sir?” the A.I. said, as though he didn’t already know.

Tony humored him anyway, and stretching, he said, “Clint Barton. Apparently he’s circus-freak bendy and is _really_ good with long shafts. Set up an interview with him, and add it to my calendar.”

…

Tony decided that he _really_ liked Barton.

It wasn’t just his appearance – although that certainly didn’t hurt. He wasn’t like most people he’d pick up at a party, but somehow that made it even better, that he wouldn’t just fade into the background of his memories as soon as the day was out. He was only an inch or so taller than Tony, which was great because while he knew he was below average height for most men, and made up for it with his charismatic presence, it didn’t mean he always _appreciated_ it. Having someone only a small bit taller than him was great, and what made it even better was that Barton was _still_ shorter than Pepper when she was wearing her heels.

He had dirty blond hair that was trimmed close to his head, though not so short that he could see the scalp beneath. It was still long enough to run his fingers through at the top – _not_ that that was his only purpose here. His eyes were blue-grey, but not a dull color – they were rather striking, set in his squared face. He must have been in his mid-thirties, and he looked _very_ nice in the dress shirt he had rolled tastefully to his elbows. On anyone else it might have looked sloppy, but on Clint Barton it only accentuated the cords of muscle in his forearms and that must have continued into the sadly clothed biceps. The shirt was just tight enough to give him hints of the muscles that lay beneath, but not so tight that it was obscene.

However, in addition to all of the beautiful features on the man, he also wasn’t some mindless punk like he’d half-feared. He’d purposely had JARVIS remind him of this interview so he wouldn’t miss it, and it would have been a shame if he’d been pulled away from his designs on the tentatively named Jericho missile just to meet a fan who thought they might get lucky with Tony Stark.

No, Barton had been respectful the entire time, and had introduced himself professionally with a firm handshake as soon as Tony had come through the door. After a few minutes of what amounted to throwaway questions and comments about the résumé, Barton said, “Honestly, I wouldn’t mind having sex with you, don’t get me wrong. But I mostly put all that on the résumé so I’d stand out over the others and get at least an interview. I’d rather I got the job based on my skills than wanting a quick fuck, so if all you’re after is sex, I don’t want to waste my time here.”

And that blunt honesty, coupled with the flirtation that had been going on between the two since he walked through the door, had Tony grinning and hiring him on the spot.

It also didn’t hurt to watch the blond man’s fingers working quickly to solve the Rubiks cube he had indeed brought.

…

Clint walked out of S.I. with a stack of paperwork to fill out in his arms and a smirk on his face. Pulling out his cell phone as he walked to his car, he called the first number on his contact list. He only had to wait a moment for the person on the other end to pick up.

“I got the job,” he said without preamble. “Tell Tasha she owes me twenty bucks.”

“You can tell her yourself when you see her,” Coulson returned mildly. “When do you start?”

“Monday,” Clint responded, climbing in to his car and starting the ignition. “I’ll have weekends off, so unless I discover something really important, I’ll call in to report then.”

“Copy that,” Coulson said. “If I need to call in for you, I’ll either send Natasha or text you from a burner phone. Unless something comes up, I’ll hear from you next weekend.”

“Got it,” Clint answered, and without further ado, hung up on his boss. He backed out of the parking lot, driving toward his apartment for the foreseeable future. He had some paperwork to fill out before Monday.


	2. Mob AU - Stuckony

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> People should really learn not to touch Tony's stuff. Steve, of course, fell under that list. So nothing was going to stop him from finding him and destroying the bastards who had dared to take him.

“You know, most people try and steer clear of pissing me off.”

The house was abandoned, sitting in the middle of nowhere. It wasn’t really hidden, but no one cared to drive down the long dirt road that led to such a dilapidated place. No one had lived there in over a decade, much less try and keep up with the maintenance of it.

“It’s a wise choice, really. You take what’s mine…there’s no kind of mercy or forgiveness from that.”

More important than the house though, was the storm cellar outside. There were two metal doors that you had to pull up, before walking down a steep flight of stairs to get inside.

“I see you’ve already met the Winter Soldier. I told him to give you my regards before I got here, and it looks to me like he was very enthusiastic.”

One might expect the cellar to be as unkempt as the house it sat under, but it was actually fairly clean.

“I’d say sorry for crashing the party, but…well, I _did_ organize it.”

The cellar wasn’t too well-lit, but it provided enough light in the center of the room to see what was going on while still providing shadows in the corners so that the one in the middle could never know for certain how many people were in the room.

“And what’s a party without a few games? Let’s play a game, shall we?”

Right then, there was a man hanging by his arms from chains that attached to the ceiling. The chains were just short enough that the man had to stand on his tip-toes to avoid wrenching his shoulders out of their sockets.

“You know where the Captain is. I’m going to ask you where. The sooner you tell me, the sooner you’ll be blessed with death.”

A woman with a shock of red hair stood in one of the shadows of the cellar, watching the proceedings with a sharp eye. A man with a metal arm stood in front of and to the left of the hanging man, watching him with the coldness he was known for. Above them, on one of the beams built for just such a purpose, perched another man, bow in one hand and arrow in the other, ready to move in a split second.

“And if I don’t like your answer…”

But the most dangerous one of all of them was making his way down the stairs, looking unassuming in an expensive business suit and perfectly coiffed hair. He didn’t look like a man who would typically get his hands dirty, but there was coldness in his eyes that said it wasn’t because he was unwilling.

“…I’ll have a little fun of my own.”

The man came to a stop in front of the hanging man, who regarded him with no small amount of fear. Although the man was several inches shorter than the chained man, having to tilt his head to look at him, he carried an aura of danger that would have had Goliath fearing for his life.

“You’re…you’re the Merchant of Death,” the chained man stuttered through bloody lips.

“Indeed I am,” the man said calmly, watching him with sharp eyes. “And you have information that I need.”

“But you’re…you’re Tony Stark!” the man protested. “You can’t…!”

“It certainly opens some doors for me,” Stark said, tilting his head slightly. “Now, I’m not going to do the stereotypical mob boss thing of threatening to start with your thumbs, but if you don’t start telling me what I need to know, I have more interesting ways of getting you to talk.”

“I don’t know anything!” the man said immediately.

“Yes, you keep saying that,” Stark observed. “Thing is, my best people have been working on you for the better part of an hour, and they don’t make mistakes. Not Hawkeye, not the Black Widow, and _certainly_ not the Winter Soldier. So I’m inclined to think you’re lying.”

“I’m new!” the man blurted desperately. “I don’t do much – I mostly just transfer packages, like a courier, but I don’t know anything about your Captain!”

Stark tilted his head a bit, studying the man, before he held out a hand and said simply, “Soldier?”

The Soldier clearly knew what the other man wanted, and a bare instant later a needle, perhaps eight inches long, was placed in his hand. The man in chains eyed it warily, and Stark smiled coldly, tracing the sharp end of it over one side of his pectoral muscles.

“You know,” he said conversationally, “When you exercise enough that you’re pushing yourself, your muscles burn because they’re tearing apart so that they can rebuild themselves. Some people relish in this burn. Based on the decent muscles you have, I think you’re one of those people.”

The needle moved, brushing with feathery lightness to one arm, passing back and forth over the line of muscle on his triceps.

“There’s a line of muscle, right here”—he traced over the area just above his armpit—“called the Teres Major. Arguably one of the most painful muscles to tear. Hurt this muscle badly enough, and the rest of your arm is pretty much useless.”

Without further ado, Stark abruptly shoved the large needle into said muscle, ripping an agonized scream of pain from the chained man. It had the doubled effect of causing his arm to go slack, making him jerk in the chains around his wrists before he had to move so that his other arm was supporting all his weight in an attempt to relieve the pain in the skewered arm. Leaving the large needle there, Stark took a step back, watching the now sobbing man in front of him with blank eyes.

“Things aren’t looking too good for you right now,” Stark said coldly without giving the other man nearly enough time to compose himself. “The human body has about 640 muscles, and I’ll work my way through all of them if you don’t tell me what I need to know.”

“Please…” the man sobbed. “Please, no…”

“Hm, I think I should make a matching pair,” Stark mused unconcernedly, taking the next needle from the Winter Soldier. “That would make a nice picture…”

A moment later, the man had a needle sticking out of him on both sides, and he struggled to find a position that wouldn’t put so much strain on the impaled muscles.

“Hm…perhaps an External Oblique now,” Stark said, completely unruffled as he traced the needle down one side of the man’s torso. “I think I’ll save the Trapezius for when you look like the victim of an acupuncture gone wrong.”

“Wait!” the man begged as Stark drew his hand back in preparation. “I’ll talk!”

Stark said nothing, silently staring with burning eyes at the man in front of him as he waited for the information he needed.

“I-I don’t know a lot, but – I know Mr. Hammer needed enough fuel in his jet to get to the West Coast, and he wanted a bunch of the stronger guys to go with him.”

“Hammer doesn’t have a base in the West Coast,” Stark prodded coldly, hand still poised to impale another muscle.

“I don’t know, that’s just what I heard,” the man said desperately. “He said he was going to take a ‘blond beefcake’ with him to some beach house.”

The Merchant of Death stilled, and his eyes began burning with a fire that had the chained man suddenly experiencing a fear multiplied tenfold from what it had just been – something he hadn’t thought possible.

“Malibu,” Stark said simply, and the chained man noticed how the Winter Soldier stilled at the single word. He wasn’t sure who to fear more in that instant.

After a moment, Stark seemed to gather himself, and he looked behind the man, into the shadows where he knew the redheaded woman was. “Widow,” Stark said with a nod to her, before turning sharply around and walking up the stairs. The man had just enough time to notice the Winter Soldier following just behind him before the deadly woman from before was blocking his view.

…

Tony nodded to Bruce as he came up out of the cellar, seeing the bag of chemicals in his hand.

“Usual clean-up; he’ll be dead already,” Tony said shortly, stepping aside so that Bucky could come up behind him.

“Blood?” Bruce inquired, seeing the tension in his friend’s face.

“Not substantial, but present,” Tony replied. “I’ll be taking a group to Malibu – I’m leaving you and Jarvis to hold everything down until I get back. Buck, Nat, Clint, and the Maximoffs will be going with me. Have medical ready; I don’t know how bad Steve might be when he comes back.”

“Are you sure I shouldn’t come with you in that case?” Bruce questioned.

“That’s why I’m taking the twins,” Tony explained shortly. “Wanda is almost done with medical school, and you’re better at clean-up, which needs to be done first. They should be able to keep Steve comfortable until we get back, should there be a problem. I’m headed to the jet right now; there’s no time to wait for this to be done.”

Bruce nodded once in acceptance. “Alright,” he said, starting down the stairs into the cellar as Natasha and Clint came up. “I’ll see you when you get back, then.”

Tony said nothing, turning to go back to the car he’d arrived in. Bucky followed just behind him, Natasha and Clint behind Bucky, all of them silent as Tony pulled out his phone and sent an emergency text to the Maximoffs that they needed to get to his airstrip with their gear.

“Shouldn’t you say something to Pepper, too?” Bucky finally asked, getting into the driver’s seat while Tony climbed in next to him and Natasha and Clint got in the back.

“Shit,” Tony muttered, pulling out his phone again from where he had just put it away. “She was insistent that I go to the board meeting this afternoon. Don’t worry about traffic laws – the twins should get there first anyway, so they’re only going to be waiting on us. Just go. Now that I’m thinking, I need to make a _few_ calls.”

Bucky had already figured this out, but said nothing as he peeled down the dirt road toward the freeway. He knew how Tony got when he was worried.

“Hi, Pep!” Tony said with faked cheer when Pepper picked up on the other end. “Sorry I won’t make the board meeting this afternoon…yes, yes, I know I promised, but Steve wanted to go to the beach, and he did that thing with his tongue – I _know_ I’ve told you about it, don’t be coy! – and then he got Bucky on board, and who am I to deny my _wonderful_ boyfriends? So yes, we’re already in Maryland and heading down South. Decided to make a road trip of it, and I think we’ll just stop when we find a worthy beach. It’s quite fun really, though Bucky keeps trying to distract me from my driving – I think I’m just going to switch with Steve at the next exit…” He let out a cut-off moan that if Bucky didn’t know any better he would’ve thought was real, before saying in a slightly shaky voice, “B-Buck…wait… Right – Pepper.” He sounded very much like he was trying to pull himself together to speak with her. “Anyway – won’t make the board meeting. I’ll be back in New York in a couple of days.” He didn’t say anything else, didn’t wait for a response, only ending the call and then looking through the list of his contacts.

“The problem with Hammer is that he’s not coming after me as a mafia boss,” Tony said, switching gears so suddenly that Bucky knew he hadn’t stopped obsessing about it even through his phone call to Pepper – not that he blamed him.

“He’s coming after me just because I’m Tony Stark,” he went on, pressing one of the names in his list to call. “So he’s going to expect me to come with you or alone, as the narcissistic businessman who doesn’t understand the real danger. So, we’re going to need to make this official, or my cover will be blown.

“Hi, Maria?” He turned his attention to the person who had picked up on the other end of the line. “Gonna need a file time stamped for a couple of days ago. Missing person: Steven Grant Rogers. Went missing in the L.A. area, seen last with a man about 5’9”, with blond hair, glasses, and a cream-colored suit. No definite suspects yet. I’ll do the rest.”

After hanging up, he spoke to Bucky again while still looking at his phone for another contact number. “So, I’m going to give him exactly what he expects. You can go with me, because he’ll expect that, but Clint and Nat, you guys will be the hidden back-up in case law enforcement doesn’t get there quick enough to my liking.” He held the phone to his ear again. “Pietro and Wanda will be with you as precautionary medical.

“Loki,” he said to the man who picked up on the other end. “I’m going to need you to hack into my main cell phone records, put in a burner phone number with an L.A. area code time stamped for early this morning – the call needs to show as lasting approximately thirty seconds long. I’d do it myself, but I’m calling a lot of people right now and don’t have the time. Got it? Alright, pass the phone to Darcy. Don’t fuck with me, Reindeer Games – I know she’s there.

“Darcy, I need you to get into the CCTV cameras on the outskirts of Los Angeles, somewhere with very little security, and none of it clear. Yes, I know it’s California, but I’m sure you can manage. Get some images of Steve, and some of Hammer with his guys – put them in some of the feed, with Steve looking defensive. No, just a few spots should be fine – it will look like nothing more than a messy clean-up from his guys. I doubt anyone will look at it, anyway – it’s just a precaution.”

After hanging up, he stared at the screen of his phone, not scrolling but feeling useless now. “Is that everyone?” he asked after a moment.

“That’s everyone,” Bucky affirmed, reaching over and taking one of Tony’s hands in his own, keeping his eyes on the road but giving his boyfriend comfort. “We’ll get him back, Tony. It’s only Justin Hammer.”

“Hammer has never been able to take one of us before, though,” Tony fretted. “What if…”

“Hey, you tell us no ‘what-ifs’ all the time,” Natasha cut him off, sounding sympathetic but firm. “There’s no point to it, and it only causes needless stress. We’ll see how Steve is when we get there, but otherwise, focus on the plan.”

Tony nodded, saying nothing else, and Bucky moved their clasped hands up to his lips so that he could kiss the back of Tony’s hand. A moment later, he jerked the steering wheel to swerve in front of another car. He wasn’t going to let anything keep him from getting to Steve as fast as possible.


	3. Serial Killer AU - Stuckony

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tony couldn't let the bad guys get away, so he did the only thing he could to make sure they could never hurt anyone ever again.
> 
> He killed them.

It started as an accident.

Really.

See, Tony Stark was a genius. Even Chief Fury recognized that, even with the perpetual stick up his ass. He did it grudgingly, and riddled with curses to him, his family, and anyone who would listen – and even those who wouldn’t – but it was enough that he acknowledged it at all. Rookies certainly wouldn’t be receiving empty words of praise – in Nick Fury’s book, you had to earn that small bit of respect he gave to the people who actually did their jobs right.

And Tony did. Do his job right, that is. If they gave out awards for national best in forensic science, Tony would have been winning it since he was twelve – and that was no exaggeration. He could have joined the FBI right out of college, but where was the fun in that? There was no Steve Rogers/Bucky Barnes duo at the FBI – although that was a whole ‘nother story altogether. Suffice to say that unlike when the offer from the FBI had been made in his mid-twenties, he could only gaze longingly in the direction of the buff blond and brunette team, doing his job with great and unheard of zeal in the hope of catching their attention, and he now shared a bed at night with the both of them and their yummy muscles.

So, because he was a genius and very good at his job, he knew exactly what to look for when the dead bodies came into the morgue. He knew exactly how much pressure was needed to crush someone’s jugular, and what spots on the skull were the most vulnerable to crushing for someone to die from a single blow rather than several. He knew which poisons were the most potent, which ones were the most painful and slow, which ones had no known antidotes, and which ones mimicked an allergic reaction best. He knew what parts of the body to look at first if the cause of death was not immediately apparent, and he knew how to get rid of any evidence of foul play that people with his job would be looking for when determining cause of death.

The thing was, after working in a morgue for any length of time, one had to develop a bit darker sense of humor to be able to get through their job without having a mental breakdown. It had happened before, with Tony’s first partner down there – a very smart man named Bruce Banner who had wanted to help people and wasn’t prepared for all of the horrors of the world and depravity of humans brought to his doorstep. Tony had enjoyed working with him, but it wasn’t even a year into the job that Bruce had finally had to quit after random bursts of anger brought on by the stress and depression that the job caused him. He was doing much better now working as a physician at the hospital – he’d even gotten married to one of the nurses there named Betty.

A few years after Bruce had left, and after his second partner by the name of Edwin Jarvis had retired, another man had come to work there named Clint Barton. He was fun, and already prepared with a dark humor before arrival, so Tony and Clint got along great. Fury had been hesitant, in the beginning, to allow two twenty-six-year-olds – particularly _those_ twenty-six-year-olds – to be partners without anyone overseeing them down there, but because Tony had already proven that he’d known what he was doing before, he let it slide. The fact that Jarvis frequently came to visit Tony during work hours certainly didn’t hurt.

It was when the three of them were all together down there that the arrangement was planned. It was a late night, and most of the police station was silent, with only a few stragglers finishing up paperwork and the like. Technically it was unsanitary to eat Chinese so close to the body bags they hadn’t gotten to cleaning yet, but none of them cared – they’d been working too long in the morgue for any of it to faze them.

Another murder had been solved that day, and they were laughing and making fun of the guy who’d done it – a guy who’d done shoddy work but had clearly tried his best to cover his tracks. It was laughable how people thought they could hide the evidence, but unless it was a trained assassin who’d done it (and that had happened a couple of times before, actually), they’d always find something to trace it back to the killer.

“Honestly, we ought to go out and give them a few pointers,” Clint scoffed, shoving the last of his egg roll into his mouth and then talking with his mouth full. “Surely a few forensics could do a better job at killing someone and hiding the evidence than these amateurs.”

“Well, these people _usually_ haven’t even planned the murder in advance,” Jarvis said dryly. “I doubt they had much time to do some research into the subject without their Google searches being flagged.”

“Nah – we ought to open our _own_ website on the dark web,” Clint joked, brushing the crumbs off of his fingers before reaching for a fork and the box of chow mein. “Name it something like ‘howtogetawaywithmurder.net’.”

Tony snorted. “Sure, _that’s_ not obvious,” he said sarcastically. “It’d be less obvious to just kill the people ourselves and then clean up the evidence we would typically look for on the job.”

“We’d only off the really bad people, though,” Clint said thoughtfully, twirling his fork around in the noodles to get a bigger mound piled onto the utensil. “Like people that we already knew were killers and rapists and pedos and shit. I wouldn’t want to go to jail because I’d killed someone who was just rude to me at the grocery store.”

Tony sniggered. “That case was _ridiculous_ ,” he muttered with a disbelieving shake of his head. “I know what you mean though. If there’s a possibility I’m going to be in deep shit with the law, I’d rather it was for a valid reason like picking off – excuse me, picking _up_ – the litter.”

Clint and Jarvis both hummed in wordless agreement, and the conversation shifted from there. It might have even been forgotten, if not for what happened a little over a week later.

It wasn’t even late at night, like what might have been stereotypical for the occasion. It was just barely approaching dusk on Tony’s day off when he got the phone call from Clint. And although they were work friends, they were friends out of work as well – perks of having the job they did was having little to no social life. So Tony didn’t even have an inkling that the phone call was about to change his life.

“Tony, I need you to get to my storage space,” Clint said as soon as he picked up and before he could say anything in greeting. He sounded like he was trying to sound normal, and failing at it. “And bring disinfectant.”

“You still using the one in Bed-Stuy?” Tony quizzed, too taken aback to ask for more information.

“Yeah,” Clint said shortly. “Hurry up.”

“I’ll be there in twenty,” Tony said, but Clint had already hung up. With an exasperated sigh and a roll of his eyes, he slipped his phone into his pocket and pulled on his shoes. As he walked out the front door with keys and disinfectant in hand, he shot off a quick text to Steve and Bucky that he was going out for a bit with Clint. He knew that the two had a stakeout that night, but just in case they came back early he didn’t want them to worry.

When he got to the storage space that Clint rented for things he couldn’t fit into his small apartment nearby, the man in question was standing tensely in front of the door.

“Hey, what’s all the cloak and dagger about?” Tony questioned, walking up to him.

“You know how Loki Laufeyson was the informant for the Chitauri gang case?” Clint said nervously.

“Sure,” Tony agreed. Everyone knew about that case, but few were privy to the details. Since Steve and Bucky were the detectives heading the case, Tony heard more than most, but the fact that he was the leading forensic on the case opened even more doors. Loki didn’t have a history of murder even when he was a loyal part of the gang, but there were enough accusations of other crimes and enough blank spots in Loki’s stories that Tony honestly wondered if the guy was even truly on their side.

“Well, he’s not exactly disloyal to the bastards after all,” Clint said with a grimace.

“What do you mean?” Tony said, eyes sharpening with focus.

“I mean that a couple of hours ago I caught him kill someone innocent!” Clint exclaimed, looking like he was finally getting the information off his chest and was grateful for it. “And I checked with that fingerprint scanner that you made – her husband flipped for real on the gang last year and they made an example out of him. You remember Grilled Jesús?”

Tony winced at the reminder – that body had been messy, due to the charcoal and burned flesh left behind after the pyre had finally burnt out. The accelerant used had been next to impossible to spray out, so the cops who’d been called to the body mostly had to just wait for the body strung up like a demented Jesus Christ on a cross to burn out. The discovery that he’d been alive when the fire had started had turned even Tony’s stomach for days afterward. Almost a year later and he still couldn’t eat ribs.

“Well, the wife ended up having a lot more information than was originally stated, and she was going to come to the police with it,” Clint went on. “Not so much because it’s the ‘right thing’ but because she wanted the bastards destroyed for torturing her husband to death. And the Chitauri found about it, and sent Loki after her.”

“How’d you figure all this out?” Tony frowned curiously.

“He’s a bit dramatic, I’m sure you’ve noticed,” Clint said dismissively. “So of course there was the evil villain speech as usual before he killed her. And I didn’t have my gun on me, so I couldn’t shoot him in time to save the woman.”

“What happened to the bow and arrow?” Tony said with slight sarcasm. Clint had used a bow and arrow – and was _amazingly_ good at it – in competitions since he was twelve, and he usually had one set in his car and one in his apartment. Tony wasn’t certain why Clint would need a bow and arrow with him while travelling, because he’d never actually _shot_ anyone with it, though he supposed having a loaded bow aimed at you would cause you to pause even more than if it was a gun.

Clint didn’t bother deigning the question with a response, so Tony sighed and said, “Well…where is he, then? Why was it so urgent that I come here – couldn’t you have just called Fury?”

This is when Clint’s expression flickered with guilt and even a bit of hate. “I kind of…went up behind him and rendered him unconscious. So he’s in the garage.”

Tony blinked. “Well,” he said, and then paused as his brain came to its realization. “I’m assuming that we’re _not_ just going to bring him in to be charged with the murder,” he said, and though it was more statement than question, Clint nodded anyway.

“You know he would be let off because of how valuable his information is,” he said frustratedly. “And we don’t even know how _accurate_ that information is anymore.”

Tony nodded. “He’d get away with it,” he said absently. His eyes focused with purpose a moment later and he looked back at Clint. “I’m assuming you used a pressure point to knock him out rather than blunt force?”

Clint nodded nervously, rubbing his hands together in a way that alone would have betrayed his anxiousness.

“Good,” Tony nodded once, going toward the door, and then paused. “You know, you could go back to your apartment now,” he said casually, though his eyes flicked to him in a way that couldn’t completely hide his hope that Clint would stay. “Plausible deniability, and all that.”

Clint shook his head after hardly a second of hesitation. “I can help,” he said. “At least with having an alibi.”

And that was that. Tony handled the main act of killing Loki, because even for how much Clint hated the guy, he didn’t have the stomach for how Tony went about framing the Chitauri for the deed in the same violent manner as they had before. Which wasn’t to say that Tony _enjoyed_ it – he didn’t. But he consoled himself with the knowledge that getting rid of Loki would help more people in the long run – not to mention that he didn’t have to worry about the guy turning on his lovers, the ones who mainly dealt with him for information. And that absolutely was not the main reason he could stomach the killing. Not at all. It was just…something to remember.

The police bought it, of course. There was some frustration that their main informant on the case had been caught out by the people he’d supposedly double-crossed, but no one suspected that it was two of the forensic scientists downstairs who had actually done the deed.

No one except Jarvis, that is.

The thing was, although Tony had only known Jarvis for a few short years, he’d been young enough when they’d been partners in the lab that he sort of…latched onto him as something of a father figure. Not to mention that his parents had just died months previous, and he’d been floundering for someone to hold onto when Jarvis had entered his life. Jarvis, bless the man, had taken to the role with ease and confidence, and looked at Tony as the son he’d never had. It wasn’t just a work relationship between the two of them, and because of this, Jarvis had learned all of his tells that he was hiding something or lying.

He didn’t report him, though. When Tony asked curiously about his rather mundane reaction of just nodding and going back to his coffee when Tony had finally admitted to it, Jarvis had simply replied that he knew that if Tony was going to kill someone, it was going to be for an extremely good reason. They’d been joking when they’d all been talking about killing people – and the bad guys in particular – but Jarvis knew that Tony was a good person, whether anyone else thought so or not. Tony didn’t need to say how these words lifted a great weight off his heart that had been there ever since the night he’d carved “SNITCH” in a still alive but unconscious man’s chest – Jarvis already knew.

After Loki, it was much…easier, Tony supposed, to kill other people who really shouldn’t be allowed to live among innocent citizens. The second time he killed someone to erase their presence from among good people, he was alone, but he called Clint and told him what he’d done, how he’d done it, and what he was using to clean it up and point the finger at a lower-level crook. Because he’d figured out that if he could get someone else blamed for it, someone who wasn’t as evil as a murderer or rapist, then they could be out of the way of people as well, in a normal jail cell. So what if they were going away for a murder they didn’t commit? They’d committed other crimes that they’d never been punished before, so Tony reasoned that it all evened out in the end.

After that, it became a thing. When Steve or Bucky or even Natasha, Clint’s crush and sometimes-girlfriend, talked about a case they were having a hard time solving because of lack of evidence, Tony would find where another suspected murderer or rapist who had gotten off on a technicality or said lack of evidence lived, and he would kill them in a way that pointed to the lesser criminal being at fault. It certainly helped to have such free access to the police files, and Clint and Jarvis preferred to do things like that, along with hiding any other mark that might bring up questions when Tony was sloppy on the rare occasion, so it all worked out.

Of course, Tony did have a few close calls where he thought Steve or Bucky had figured out what the three of them were up to down in the morgue. In one of the earlier kills, he had gotten a bit of blood on the side of his boot, and Bucky had commented on it – of course knowing what dried blood looked like – but luckily Tony had a new bandage around his pinky from when he’d sliced it down the side with the skull saw, and that _had_ actually been bloody enough to warrant the amount on his shoe, so blaming the blood on that wasn’t unreasonable.

Another time, Steve had found an empty syringe in the car between the two front seats that had apparently fallen out of the biohazard bag he’d chucked in the ocean (Yes, littering – bad…whatever.) a week previous. That one had been a bit harder to come up with an explanation for, but a breezy lie that it was fine, not even used yet, had dealt with it fine enough and Tony had disposed of it as quickly as he was able.

But, all in all, Steve and Bucky seemed pretty clueless to what Tony got up to while they were on their stakeouts and filling out boring paperwork at the station. And that was a good thing – really – but sometimes Tony couldn’t help wondering what either of them would say if they found out. Would they agree with him and his reasons for doing this? Probably not. They were just so… _good_. He could imagine Steve’s patented Disappointed Look directed at Tony, and Tony _hated_ being on the receiving end of that look. It made him feel like he needed to beg at Steve’s feet for something to do to make it right and erase that look to be replaced with something a lot more pleasant.

Bucky…Bucky would probably just be really sad. Maybe he’d be stony faced in the beginning, when he first found out, but as it began to sink in that one of his lovers was a serial killer…his face would crumple with grief and a pain so visceral that Tony would feel so much guilt for putting those feelings in one of the two people he loved and cared about the most. And both of them would feel like it was their duty to turn him in, to stand trial and testify that he was a terrible human being who killed people without remorse. They might even feel guilty for it, but Tony knew that they would always do the Right Thing. That was who his boyfriends were, and goddamn it all if he would try and change that.

So he carefully kept it all a secret, because he didn’t want his lovers to leave him. He wanted to feel that belonging he’d never been able to feel with anyone else, that belonging that only came when he was between the two handsome police officers.

The thing was, Tony really did it for _them_ , and wasn’t that just fucked up? But it was true. Yes, the murderers and rapists and pedophiles that he got rid of were terrible people, and yes, he agreed that they shouldn’t be allowed to live among normal people. But he could be honest with himself that he wanted them out because he didn’t want to chance them killing Steve or Bucky if and when his boyfriends caught up to them. And it was that ever-present fear that it would happen that made Tony think about the other New Yorkers that he didn’t know, but who had their own Buckys and Steves that they would be heartbroken if gone. This fear gave him the zeal he needed to kill as he needed to, and hide it as he needed to when he and Clint and Jarvis covered it with the ‘evidence’ of another criminal having done it.

So it would stay a secret, between him, Clint, and Jarvis. He couldn’t stop doing it, oh no. He was already in deep and he knew what would happen if he stopped. He would feel helpless again. He would feel like he couldn’t help his boys. He would be left just an autopsy technician at the police morgue, going about every day the same as the last.

He would never be able to stop. And he was okay with that.


	4. Kleiner Soldat - Clint is the Winter Soldier's son AU

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hydra wanted more soldiers, and since no one could figure out the formula of the serum used on Captain America, they decided to see if the Soldier's own DNA could create someone stronger. Only one combination worked, and the Kleiner Soldat was born. But he wants his father safe from the pain Hydra regularly inflicts, so one day he decides to get them to Avengers Tower. He can only hope that they will help.  
> .  
> (Note for any confusion: Clint is the Kleiner Soldat - his name was planned to change to Clint a few chapters in.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> reposted with the tiniest bit added because it's all I have of the next chapter. I've been at a block on this for years, so here you are. I still have ideas for where I want this to go, but I don't know how to get there, so if you want to pick it up just let me know because I still love the idea. ;)

The Soldier knows little pleasure. His days – the ones he is aware of, anyway – are filled with structure and order. He knows as soon as he comes out from the freezer where weeks and years blur together into no time at all, that he will be brought into awareness and focus through means he can never quite recall, but which ultimately work in the end. When he comes to awareness, he will have a mission, and have to kill a certain person.

He remembers, once, a very long time ago _(How long ago?)_ , when he had been rewarded with conditioned hair after a successful mission. He remembers the feel of the hands scrubbing his scalp after a mission, not gentle by any means, but not exactly painful either. But, it was the only time he could remember feeling any real sort of satisfaction and enjoyment. When he had gone out to his next mission, before going back to the freezer, he’d liked how his hair didn’t fly in his face so much or get caught on the edges of his mask.

But the pleasure he feels when he rises up through the fog of his mind is one completely different from someone washing his hair. He can’t quite pinpoint what it is about this pleasure that feels so… _wrong_ …but he knows it feels familiar, and it has no place here. Wherever ‘here’ is, because that’s not something he ever knows or feels the need to ask.

He’s struggling to wake up, to fight through the fog that always shrouds his mind while he’s in the ice, and he catches a few German words.

_“…Gerade nur schneller gehen…”_

_“…E_ _s ist nicht schwerer als es selbst zu tun…”_

_“Fick dich...”_

German – why aren’t they speaking Russian? His handlers always spoke in Russian, and he can’t think hard enough to translate what little he knows of the European language now. But then, it doesn’t sound like they’re speaking to him anyway, so perhaps he doesn’t have to understand?

The pleasure is building steadily, and he feels a heat pooling in his belly. The fog in his head lifts more, and he can make out a blurry ceiling above him with dimmed fluorescent light fixtures, the bodies of three people just outside his line of vision.

_“Er ist dem Auftauen – beeile dich.”_

_“Er ist in abschließen.”_

The pleasure is shrouding his mind now more than the fog of the freezer, and his hips make a slight, involuntary jerk upwards. It’s not enough, not nearly close enough to how much he needs to move, but he hears one of the men chuckle a bit before the pleasure builds and builds on itself until he thinks he won’t possibly be able to handle it – and then the muscles in his belly twitch and tighten, and his hips thrust upwards again before the pleasure crashes over him like a stretched rubber band that has finally snapped and he goes limp on the table at the release.

His vision is still blurry, but he hears more German, more words he doesn’t even try to make sense of as he blinks sleepily, uncaring of the hands on him, wiping him down with something and adjusting his clothes. It’s nothing he’s not used to, so it’s nothing worthy of note.

His eyes catch on a little clear plastic cup with a red lid as it’s passed over his head, and he vaguely sees an inch or so of milky white goo inside before the table he’s on is rolled away, out of the room.

And then he feels the sudden cold all around him, dropping below freezing in seconds, and the door closes in front of him, and he thinks no more.

…

He first sees the child when he – the child, that is – is a toddler. The boy has blond hair, and it’s cut short so that it’s not in his face during his training. He is the youngest person in the room, the next oldest child perhaps six, but this makes him no less skilled than the others.

He _is_ just a toddler though, just barely three years old, and training or not, he lacks the same amount of discipline as the ones three, four years older than him. As the Soldier watches beside his handler, the three year old lifts his body up with his arms and holds his chin above the bar as long as he can, and longer still when the trainer snaps a ruler sharply across the boy’s buttocks every time he falters.

Finally the boy can’t take it anymore, and even when the trainer snaps the ruler down again in warning and then again in punishment, he can’t get back on the bar – his little muscles are too tired now.

“Train him,” his handler finally says to him, motioning to the blond child. “The other trainers aren’t competent enough to deal with this handful, but there’s a chance you might be able to get through to him where none others can. He’s enhanced, so don’t hold back on him – he’ll heal quickly enough. If you can’t make some headway with him, we’ll have to put him down.”

The Soldier nods once. He understands.

…

The Soldier was only out of the ice for three weeks to train the child, but it seemed enough of a start for his handlers. The Soldier had followed his orders and didn’t hold back when the child fell short. He was sure not to break anything more important than fingers, because he knew from experience that those healed the quickest.

The child – Yakob, he learned, though it didn’t really matter – actually wasn’t that bad of a soldier. Not to the extent that the trainers and his handlers had implied, at least, though he’s not going to tell them that. He was a fast learner, but the problem was that he was just _too_ young. He didn’t have all of the muscles needed yet for what they were training him for.

So, as much as he could in those three weeks, he worked to build the boy’s muscle mass. It hurt the child, but it was necessary, just as the punishments were when he knew someone else was watching him train the boy. At least Yakob had learned enough that he knew how useless crying or complaining would be – he just got right back up, and fought through the pain as the Soldier taught him the basics of fighting while simultaneously increasing his strength.

He was just starting to wonder in the back of his mind if he might actually care for the child – an odd feeling, because he knew he wasn’t capable of having feelings for someone; that was for people – when he was put back in the freezer. There was no farewell to the boy, no warning, but the Soldier hadn’t expected it, anyway. He was just a Soldier, and a single blond-haired boy wasn’t going to change that.

…

When he saw the boy again, he had no idea that he’d met him before. He didn’t remember the blond child with the blue-grey eyes, because he’d been in the chair before he met the boy again – though to his mind, it was the first time.

He was told to train him for sniping – this time with a hand gun, but when he was older he would know how to use every weapon in existence – up to and including a bow and arrow. He’d had some training with darts and knives before, and his hand-eye coordination was exceptional, so the almost-five-year-old was now to begin using guns from longer distances.

The Soldier didn’t need to punish Yakob in those two weeks of training – he was a fast learner, and it seemed that the child cared more about not disappointing him than anything else, and that was a stronger motivator than physical pain. The Soldier didn’t understand, because he didn’t feel things like disappointment, but he said nothing about it because he knew he was different so it was probably something he would just never understand.

He finished a mission at the end of the two weeks, and shortly after coming back, he sat in the chair that held him down while giving him pain, before he was put back in the freezer until they needed their Asset once again.

…

By the time Yakob was ten, the Soldier had met him for the ‘first time’ eight times, though with each time he met him he seemed just a touch more familiar. He never spent longer than three weeks at a time training the boy, but it was long enough that Yakob recognized him as soon as he saw him, and seemed to stick closer to him when others were in the room. The Soldier surmised that the boy was one of those things he just forgot, and thought no more of it. The boy was his mission – though a different mission than his usual ones, to be sure. He trained the boy to be an assassin, to bring him up to his own level of expertise.

But the familiarity had its troubles, in the end.

It had happened almost without the Soldier’s realizing it – it had been instinct. During the eighth training period, there had been another trainer there, overseeing Yakob’s practice with the bow and arrow. The bow and arrow had become Yakob’s weapon of choice after hundreds of hours of practice, and although he was good with guns, he had a natural affinity for the bow that the handlers saw no reason to discourage.

The boy had sneezed in the same moment that he released the arrow, and it caused the arrow to go wide, shooting past the target and sticking into the wall next to the Soldier.

The trainer hadn’t seemed in the best mood already – though neither of the two soldiers would know any differently – and the arrow hitting the wall rather than the target was apparently the perfect excuse to stride over and begin berating the boy in rapid German. The Soldier had stood by, knowing that it was not his place to disagree with his superiors, but as soon as the trainer had grabbed an arrow from Yakob’s quiver and pointed it in his face, saying and illustrating how he would shove it right through the middle of the boy’s skull if he was so foolish as to mess up a shot because of a damned sneeze…

The man was down a moment later, the arrow that had been in the wall next to the Soldier a moment before now blooming from his back. It was still and silent in the room for several moments as man and boy watched the trainer choke and bleed out quickly in front of them. It hadn’t been a perfect shot, as it hadn’t had a bow to release it, but the Soldier had thrown it with enough force through his lung that nothing would have saved him, even if he had gotten help as soon as the arrow punctured skin.

After that however, the Soldier’s handlers had come running in with a bunch of gun toting guards, and he had obediently dropped to his knees and put his hands behind his head, the ten-year-old following his example feet away from him.

No one cared that he had killed the agent, he surmised later. No, what was upsetting was that he had defended the _Kleiner Soldat_ in a way that showed he actually cared for someone – and a child. This could apparently upset his programming. He didn’t understand what all of these words meant, but they hadn’t thought that he could hear them anyway, so it was clearly not meant for his ears.

But then, one of the handlers had proposed an idea – to pair the Kleiner Soldat and the Wintersoldat together, for them to work as a pair and be that much more effective and deadly.

He supposed that they must have accepted this, because he didn’t go to the chair this time to forget about Yakob. And when he came out of cryo, he had another mission as was normal. But there was one difference from usual – his mission was no longer solo.

…

The Soldier supposed, years later, that most father-son outings didn’t include the father prompting the son through the steps of a perfect kill and cover-up. But, he decided that he didn’t care, because he’d known for years _(decades?)_ that he wasn’t normal.

He didn’t wonder about Yakob’s mother, because he had nothing to base the idea on. He didn’t wonder how he didn’t remember Yakob as a baby or much about him growing up, because he was unaware that it was something to be concerned about. Yakob had discovered when he was twelve that the Winter Soldier – or simply “Soldat”, as he called him – was his biological father. He had told the Soldier this when they were out on a mission, when Yakob had been shadowing him to watch how it was done and he knew that the trainers and handlers weren’t listening in. The Soldier had been confused at this, because while he understood that other people had fathers, it seemed odd to think that the _Kleiner Soldat_ had one. He’d just always…been there. Yakob had had to explain how he’d found the files that said the Winter Soldier’s sperm had been combined with other people’s DNA and then given to a woman in captivity for him to be created.

The Soldier had looked, after that, for how a father was supposed to act with a son, because he still didn’t understand and nothing made sense. He had hidden his searching from his handlers out of instinct, because he knew at least subconsciously that they would remove the knowledge from his mind if they ever found out about it.

But after hours of research, he had decided that his and Yakob’s situation was not like the fathers and sons illustrated in books and online and what he saw in passing on their missions. So, he discarded all of that and simply treated Yakob how he thought he should be – how instinct told him to. A third party who saw them might have said that they acted more like brothers – but brothers with a wide enough age gap that one still took charge over the other.

Still, the Soldier felt something in his chest that a normal person would recognize as pride when Yakob successfully took out a Turkish diplomat without needing his help. It was the thirteen-year-old’s first mission to kill on his own outside of the Room, with the Soldier following along in case of needing to step in. Yakob needed a couple of prompts to remember the perfect steps to hiding evidence of their involvement in the death, but he was otherwise perfect. People would still know that he was murdered, of course – an arrow to the chest illustrated _that_ pretty clearly – but the world didn’t know about the Kleiner Soldat or his affinity for the bow and arrow, so they were in the clear.

“ _Gut gemacht_ , Yakob,” the Soldier murmured in congratulations as they made their way back to the drop point where they would be picked up.

“ _Danke_ , Soldat,” Yakob said with a slight smile, shifting the strap holding the arrows to his back so that it stayed in place better.

“Don’t fight this time when I’m put in the chair,” the Soldier said in German several minutes later as they walked. “I would have thought after the first few times that you would realize that it does you no good.”

Yakob scowled, good mood disappearing at the reminder of what awaited his friend and father as soon as they returned to Germany. “I’m tired of you forgetting me all the time,” he grumbled. “It’s not like you’re going to have a change of heart and escape from them if you remember, anyway.”

“I’d rather _I_ forgot than _you_ get put in the chair again,” the Soldier returned, adjusting his face mask slightly to be more comfortable.

“Except that that’s _why_ they put me in the chair,” Yakob argued, shoving his hands in his front pockets as they walked. “They know you don’t like seeing me hurt – I’m just the leverage to keep you in line.”

“I don’t care how they see you – I’m going to do what I can to make sure _you_ don’t have to get electricity to the brain on a regular basis like I do.” The Soldier retorted.

Yakob snorted. “Except that while you know logically that your brain gets zapped regularly, _you_ don’t actually remember it or know how much you’re really missing.” His eyes went down to watch his feet as he walked, expression infinitely sad.

“Hey,” the Soldier stopped walking, tugging on Yakob’s arm to get him to stop as well. “I’m sorry that I don’t remember everything you’ve told me all the time or the time we’ve spent together. But our work is to help save the world, and to make it a better place. Sometimes, sacrifices have to be made. The wipes are routine – it’s not like you didn’t know beforehand that I’d be going to the chair after this mission.”

Yakob sighed and shrugged out of the older man’s grip. “I know that,” he groused. “But sometimes I just want to run away and go live a _normal_ life, away from HYDRA where neither of us will be zapped or frozen on the regular.”

“ _Halt den Mund_ ,” the Soldier said sharply, grabbing Yakob’s arm again, a lot less gently than before. “Do you want your handlers to hear you say that?” He shook the boy slightly, and Yakob shook his head reluctantly, not looking the Soldier in the eye. “No? Then keep your tongue in your head, or _they’ll_ be the ones to remove it; you don’t need your tongue to follow orders. I don’t care how you feel about it, but you will _not_ say another word against HYDRA; do you understand?” Yakob nodded, a lot more subdued now, and the Soldier eyed him for a moment before nodding once and releasing his tight grasp on the pale arm. Said arm had a bruise rapidly beginning to bloom under the skin where the Soldier had held it, but no bones had cracked, so the Soldier knew that it would be back to normal within the hour.

They began walking again, silence a lot more tense than before. Finally the younger boy blurted, “It’s not that I want to leave HYDRA – I don’t. But…I’m just tired of seeing them put you in the chair all the time. It seems like it’s happening a lot more than necessary to keep me from fighting them.”

“’Order comes only through pain’,” the Soldier recited. Yakob sighed, but he fell silent, not arguing his point further.

…

It was an accident, really.

No one had planned it, and it was all rather sudden, not giving his handlers any time to call the Soldiers back from the Philippines before keeping them in the base for a few months again. The aliens coming right out of a hole in the sky above New York City of course made worldwide news, and a picture of the ones who had fought to get them out was at the front of a newspaper the two passed by in their morning scouting.

The Soldier had barely glanced at it, but he was trained in catching everything he could in a single glance, and he did a double-take of the newspaper a moment later. He stopped walking, and Yakob stopped as well, though he wasn’t sure what had surprised the older man so much.

He distractedly gave the newspaper seller a few pesos for the paper, and then pulled it out and stared at the picture on the front page.

It wasn’t large, and it was in black and white, but it was enough. Because even without the color showing, he could easily imagine – _remember?_ – that the circular shield was red, white, and blue. And although the uniform was different, he could tell that it was Captain America, because who else would wear such a ridiculously patriotic outfit?

_Steve._

“Steve,” the Soldier breathed, staring at the man and seeing a scrawny, sickly boy instead who only came up to his chin.

“ _Soldat_ ,” Yakob snapped, tightly grasping his arm and switching to German so that the people around them wouldn’t understand. “We need to go – I don’t care what you’re thinking right now, but we’re already starting to get noticed, and that’s not how we do this.”

“Yes, the plane leaves at two,” the Soldier said in perfect Illongo, for the benefit of anyone closer to them that might overhear, though his mind wasn’t really on his words. “We have a couple more hours before we have to get to the airport.”

“Let’s get some breakfast, then,” Yakob said, smoothly switching to Illongo as well as he kept his grasp on the arm while they walked down the street. “Some buko and rice, maybe…”

After they got away from the main street and possible listening ears, Yakob rounded on the Soldier.

“What’s going on?” he rapped out immediately. “Who’s Steve?”

“He’s my friend,” the Soldier said, not knowing this fact until the words had escaped.

Yakob blinked in surprise. “But you don’t have friends.” It wasn’t said to be mean – it was simply a fact. The Soldier was just that – a soldier, with no ties to anyone else and no relations outside of his son.

“I did,” the Soldier said vaguely, staring down at the paper. “Steve… He used to put newspapers in his shoes. He was smaller.”

Yakob could only stare at the closest thing he had to a father as the man became a completely different person from what he was used to. No longer the mindlessly obedient, strict mentor and soldier, he was confused, and lost, and mumbling about a man – boy? – that apparently neither of them had known even existed until the Soldier saw the picture.

Finally, coming to a decision, he reached out and slapped the Soldier across the face, trying to get him to focus and come back to the present. Startled, the Soldier looked up at him, though he didn’t hold his reddening cheek as most would have. (But then he wasn’t like most people.)

“Pull yourself together,” Yakob said in a purposely harsh voice. “Who cares if you knew this guy before? It doesn’t change anything in the now.”

“HYDRA,” the Soldier said suddenly, eyes focused and clear for a few brief moments. “Me an’ Steve…we were trying to stop HYDRA. I fell off the train.”

“So _what_?” Yakob said, practically a snarl. “This changes _nothing_. We _belong_ to _HYDRA_.”

“Steve could help us,” the Soldier went on as though he’d said nothing. “Steve…he doesn’t like bullies.”

“Are you even _listening_ to me?” Yakob said incredulously. “ _No one_ escapes HYDRA. After this, they’re probably already on their way to come get _us_ to make sure you haven’t remembered your apparent former friend. And if they don’t find us, it’s not too hard to believe they’ll activate our kill chips. So _pull yourself together_ , because we’re going back to _Germany_ today, not America.”

The Soldier looked mournful, glancing between Yakob and the newspaper, but he finally seemed to understand.

“We have to find him, though,” the Soldier murmured. “I don’t mean now – I know we have to let HYDRA think we’re still loyal, and I wouldn’t risk putting you in danger with the kill chip. But…some day. Maybe in our next mission to America.”

“Yeah,” Yakob agreed, not believing that they could ever really escape from HYDRA. “Alright.”

…

As it turned out, Yakob snapped a couple of months later. It was completely unplanned, but after the Avengers had gone public, HYDRA was a bit more paranoid, and they’d put the Soldier in the chair nine times since then. The Soldier didn’t even remember his realization about this Steve – apparently Captain America – anymore. His memories of Yakob were becoming fewer, and Yakob worried that next the feelings from the memories would disappear. That was how it always went after his father had spent prolonged periods in the chair. Even Yakob had been in the chair twice since the alien attack, completely unprovoked. But they were just paranoid enough that they felt the need to threaten the Soldier once more with his safety and wellbeing.

It was after the two had been sent on their second mission since coming back from the Philippines that Yakob finally decided they had to make their break for it, and make it _soon_. They were on their way to Spain, a bit closer to home (‘home’ being a relative term), and Yakob made a snap decision while they were on the jet.

He grabbed a knife from his belt – his father had been through the chair just before the mission so they expected only complete obedience and didn’t worry about not giving him weapons before he strictly needed them for the mission. In less than a minute, he’d killed the seven HYDRA agents and the pilot, quickly setting the buttons to go on autopilot so that he could take care of some personal issues.

“Yakob, what’s going on?”

His father had only watched with narrowed eyes, sitting placidly in one of the seats while he’d quickly and systematically disposed of the agents and made sure they had no surprises on them for when they died. At least it showed that the wipe still wasn’t a hundred percent successful getting rid of his father’s trust in him.

“I know you don’t remember everything – you’ve been wiped a lot more than usual the past few weeks,” Yakob explained sympathetically at the older man’s confused look. “And I can explain everything on the way, but right now we have to get rid of a couple of kill chips, before anyone back at HQ finds out we’ve gone rogue.”

“We can’t remove the kill chips, though,” the Soldier said automatically.

Yakob winced. “We can,” he corrected, fiddling with the knife in his hands. “It’s just going to be _really_ fucking painful.”

The Soldier’s eyes darted up to his son’s face, gauging how determined he was, and then he nodded once at what he apparently saw there. “What do you need me to do?”

Although he felt somewhat guilty for it, Yakob was grateful that the frequent wipes had dulled most of his father’s emotions – before the Philippines, the Soldier would never have agreed to use the knife to cut into the bone of his son’s forearm to remove the chip. But then again, better to be in searing agony for a few hours than dead. And he knew from experience that the bone would heal quickly, thanks to his father’s DNA running through him.

Although, he reflected several minutes later as he drew a larger knife from his belt, he would rather have that agony every day for a year than have to inflict pain on his own father. Neither of them knew what the kill chip looked like in the Soldier, because it was in his metal arm, and it blended in with all of the other parts of the arm. Thus, the only solution was to completely sever the limb at the elbow to be sure the kill chip was gone. The problem was that although the arm was metal and fake, it still connected to his nerves and the pain receptors in his brain, so it was just as painful as it would have been had it been a real, flesh and blood arm.

And although the Soldier had the discipline to only groan in pain, Yakob could see the agony etched in every line of his father’s face. Tossing the arm to the side, he jumped and ran over to the closest dead agent, patting him down for those tranq guns he knew the man should have. Finally finding it, he shot one of the darts with drugs strong enough to put down an elephant in his father’s neck. It took a moment, but he finally passed out, and Yakob breathed a sigh of relief, grateful that the Soldier wouldn’t have to be in pain any longer.

“I’ll get you safe, _Soldat_ ,” he murmured, going over to the plane’s controls to turn them in the direction of America. “We just have to find your friend Steve. You’ll be okay once we’ve reached Tony Stark’s tower.”

...

Yakob had run out of tranqs an hour ago – Soldat’s body burned through a single one in twenty minutes, and it was a ten hour flight on the HYDRA-issued jet. He winced to see his father in such pain, but ignored the feeling as much as he could with all of the training that HYDRA had forced into him his entire life. He kept his eyes on the controls and out the window, making sure that nothing was going to interfere with his bid for their safety, and that they would get to the Stark tower before HYDRA could get to them.

He finally found the tower as he steered them over the city, and found that rather than it saying _Stark_ on the side, it now had a stylized ‘A’ – probably for Avengers. So, it was Avengers Tower now, he mused as he moved to the convenient landing pad.

It was oddly quiet, he thought as he landed the jet on the open spot. He would have thought all of them would have come out to attack at the foreign jet on their turf, but it looked like nobody was home.

 _No,_ he realized suddenly, powering down the jet. _They’re waiting._

“Yakob,” Soldat panted after a moment of them sitting there, doing nothing.

“Just a moment, Soldat,” Yakob murmured, going to the control with the radio. He thought he might be able to connect it to the frequency inside the tower, so that he could talk them down before he came out and exposed them to attack.

But, he discovered, there was some sort of block on it that he wasn’t able to get through in the next few minutes, so he turned on the PA speakers on the outside of the jet, hoping that people floors down wouldn’t be able to hear it.

“Hello?” he called out, not able to tell if the speakers were working as he couldn’t hear them from inside the jet. “Mr. Stark?”

Looking through the front window, he could see no movement through the glass that looked like it housed a workshop. Stark’s, no doubt.

“We don’t mean you or the Avengers any harm,” Yakob continued when he got no response. “It is just my father and me on this craft. I can explain more when we get off, but I know you’re probably waiting to attack right now, and I don’t want my father to get hurt further if you attacked as soon as the hatch opened.” He paused, unsure what to say next to assure them before finally deciding that he’d explained as much as he could for the moment – details were unnecessary at this point and wouldn’t be believed. “Um…I’m just going to open it now. Please don’t hurt us.”

Hoping that it was enough for now, he turned off the speaker, hitting the button that would open the hatch as promised. As it slowly lowered, Yakob picked up his bow and went back to his father, who was still clearly in great pain, but was trained enough to have heard and understood what was going on.

“I sure hope you’re right that we can trust them to help us,” Soldat said, and Yakob could tell that he was nervous, even though it didn’t show on his face.

“Steve will,” Yakob said with a confidence he didn’t feel as he watched his father rise without help. “You said he was your friend.”

“I don’t remember,” Soldat grunted, moving toward the opening.

“No, you won’t,” Yakob agreed, walking just a couple of inches in front of his father, just in case. He didn’t finish the rest of his thought – _But perhaps he will._

After they’d got off the jet, they went to the glass doors, which surprisingly opened automatically. Cautiously, Yakob stepped inside, running his thumb nervously along the bow in his right hand and looking around.

Then Iron Man appeared in front of him, in full uniform so that he couldn’t see Stark’s face as the hand was held out with the palm lit up in preparation for the repulsor beam, a clear warning.

“Hold it right there, Legolas.” The voice was filtered through whatever speakers made his voice loud enough for people to hear without him shouting through the armor, but Yakob recognized Stark’s voice from videos he’d occasionally seen and only remembered viewing in that moment.

Slowly, Yakob raised his hands. “We mean you no harm,” he carefully repeated his earlier words from the jet.

“Yeah?” a voice behind Iron Man said. The Widow, his mind supplied – the only woman in the Avengers. He glanced over at her to see the redheaded woman pointing a small hand gun at him. He blinked a bit, noticing that she was in jeans and a T-shirt, and although she was barefoot, it didn’t detract from her deadly persona.

“Put the bow down.” She finished, eyes hard.

Yakob paused, before deciding that the best thing to do at that point to get their trust would be to obey their commands. Moving his eyes back to the repulsor beam in particular, he lowered himself slightly to put the bow on the floor in front of him. His quiver of arrows followed directly after.

“Yakob,” his father’s voice said warningly behind him in a low voice, clearly disapproving of the easy compliance.

“We need their help,” Yakob returned, speaking as much to his father as to the Avengers. Although he couldn’t see the others, he knew that they were there, probably all pointing their own weapons at the two of them. “It’s not as though we have anywhere else to go.” He rose just as slowly to his feet, before taking a couple of steps back and away from the bow, toward Soldat.

“Why don’t you tell your old man to drop the weapons too, then?” Widow spoke again, her voice casual, but Yakob could recognize the threat in it.

“Soldat?” he prompted, keeping his eyes on the repulsor beam, the most immediate and closest threat.

“We will be defenseless,” Soldat argued, sounding cornered. Yakob could practically feel his eyes darting around the room, looking for exits. His mind worked quickly to find a way to get a bit of the Avengers’ trust, so that it might hopefully assure his father.

“Steve,” Yakob said suddenly, eyes moving from the repulsor beam to the blond man beside Widow. He was in casual clothes as well, but his shield was like none other and easily identified him as Captain America – the man that his father had recognized several weeks before. He looked surprised to be addressed, but he was paying attention to Yakob, so he went on.

“He said that he knew you – that you were his friend,” he said, eyeing the captain so he’d be able to ascertain if he was trustworthy. “He doesn’t remember now because of the Chair, but he said you were helping take down HYDRA with him, but he fell off a train.” He saw the captain’s face go to one of shock, and he shrugged in response. “I suppose you know what that means. He was never able to explain it to me before we got back to base.”

The captain stepped forward, looking past Yakob and to his father. Feeling the eyes on him, Soldat glanced up, and the captain’s face cleared of any doubt he had a moment before as the face was revealed from behind the curtain of hair. Yakob was glad that his father had removed the goggles and mask in their flight over the Atlantic so that the process could be hurried along that much more.

“Bucky?” the captain breathed.

“Is…” Soldat hesitated. “Is that my name?”

“Rogers, it might not be him,” Widow warned, her aim on the gun not faltering. “It could be a trick.”

“No,” Steve said assuredly, not glancing at her, taking a step closer to Soldat. “No, it’s Bucky.”

“Everyone knows Bucky Barnes fell off a train while HYDRA bases were being taken down,” Widow countered. “And you yourself have seen the tech that can alter a face.”

“He said you put newspapers in your shoes,” Yakob said suddenly, hoping that this was true and not something his mind conjured after his most recent trip to the Chair. He saw the confirmation on the captain’s face, and felt relief that the knowledge apparently was accurate – it was something more personal that the captain would understand.

“Stand down, Tony,” Steve said, relaxing and coming closer. Iron Man’s arm remained raised for a few moments longer, making a point, before he finally dropped it, the repulsors firing down. Yakob remained tense though, because while the ones he recognized as Thor and the Hulk in doctor form (what was his name again?) relaxed at the apparent lack of threat, Widow didn’t waver her aim of the gun on his father.

“какова ваша миссия?” she said suddenly. Yakob blinked in surprise at the sudden Russian, but his mind had already translated the question – _What is your mission?_

“Yakob,” Soldat said, and for a moment Yakob thought he was talking to him, before he realized that he was responding to Widow’s question.

“Я следую за ним,” Soldat finished quietly. _I follow him._

Yakob was the only one to understand exactly what his father meant by that. After having been so recently wiped, Soldat was following pure instincts, and his instincts had told him for years to trust Yakob above anyone else. If it had been up to him, Soldat never would have come seeking help from an apparent former friend, and Yakob knew that he was feeling extremely uneasy at that moment, but because Yakob insisted that they would be alright, Soldat trusted him to take the reins on this one.

“Buck, what happened to you?” the captain questioned him, apparently not caring to address the Widow’s concerns at the moment. “You’re…how are you alive?”

“Captain, Soldat does not remember most of it,” Yakob cut in. He knew how it could cause Soldat stress when he was asked a question he didn’t know the answer to – especially one about his past, recent or otherwise. “HYDRA has…unmade him, many times. He does not always recognize me either, let alone remember the circumstances of how he got here. His memory will begin returning to him in a couple of weeks, and you can ask him questions later.”

“What do we call you, then?” the Widow challenged before the captain could find a response to that. He noticed how she had pointed her gun down, but both hands were still on it and he easily recognized the loose posture that said she was ready to attack at a moment’s notice. “Winter and Kleiner? Somehow I don’t think that will be keeping a low profile.”

Yakob kept the frown he felt from appearing on his face with the ease of long practice. “I’m not so little anymore, Widow,” he told her blandly, unsurprised that she knew on sight who they were. “I am twenty-seven years old.”

“Who’s your doctor, because that is _hella_ good Botox,” Stark piped in, and Yakob absently noted that the face plate had come up so that he could see the man’s face now.

“You look like a teenager,” the Hulk spoke for the first time in agreement with Stark. His voice was quiet, but not shy exactly – more like he was watchful and unassuming. Yakob mentally noted to himself to watch this man, and not just because he could turn into an enormous green rage monster.

“Courtesy of cryogenic freezers after I completed my training,” Yakob said dryly. It was because of the freezers they stored him in for however long when they didn’t need him that he hated the cold. Soldat was the same way, even if he didn’t always remember why he didn’t like colder temperatures, due to his frequent ‘resetting’.

“Damn,” Stark muttered with what seemed to be sympathy. He was ignored.

“So…you’re Bucky’s…son?” the captain was the one to ask, struggling for words as he remembered Yakob’s words from earlier. He glanced between Soldat and Yakob as he spoke. At Yakob’s single, wordless nod, he questioned, “Who’s your mother?”

“I have no idea,” Yakob said plainly, honestly. “HYDRA is not in the habit of taking down names of their prisoners, and after I was born they didn’t bother keeping her alive.” The captain jerked like he had been slapped, so Yakob addressed what he supposed was the concern. “She was not raped – they injected her with Soldat’s ‘donation’, and was kept healthy during her months of pregnancy.” He smiled wryly. “Wouldn’t want anything to happen to the asset she was housing, after all.”

“Why did this wicked faction deem it necessary to create an adolescent, and then proceed to slaughter the mother as soon as the deed was accomplished?” Thor spoke up, looking troubled.

“Well, they didn’t want an ‘adolescent’, as you put it; they wanted a genetically enhanced super-soldier that they could easily control.” Yakob responded, his answer causing the captain to jerk. “And they weren’t making any headway in replicating the serum used for Captain America, and the fact that it worked on Soldat in the war was a fluke at best, so they took Soldat’s DNA in the hopes that any offspring would be enhanced. I was the only one that took, so they put all their effort into molding me how they wanted.” He shrugged in forced casualness, still feeling uncomfortable with all of the dangerous people in front of him. The fact that Soldat had remained silent this entire time while they asked their questions did nothing to comfort him – but then, he reminded himself, his father was in agony at the moment.

“And how enhanced are you?” the Hulk asked, eyes curious.

“Oh, not as much as Soldat – I have perhaps about sixty percent of his capabilities.” He shrugged again. “Just as Captain America, he needs an elephant tranquilizer to go down, but he’ll be down twenty minutes rather than five. I’ll be down for perhaps an hour.”

“Yakob,” Soldat finally spoke up again behind him, the word a hiss of warning once more as he told them their weaknesses. Yakob didn’t bother saying anything this time – he knew it was a stupid gamble to tell possible enemies how to debilitate him and his father, but he thought that at least semi-transparency would be best to gain their trust at the moment.

“You said HYDRA had you,” the captain said after a troubled glance to his father. “But HYDRA went down at the end of the war.”

Yakob snorted, truly amused for the first time since arriving, albeit a dark humor. “Perhaps so,” he agreed. “But I’m sure you’ve heard before – ‘cut off one head, and two more shall take its place.’” The captain looked sick.

But suddenly he didn’t care about the captain, because Stark, who had been oddly quiet for much too long, had fired something from his suit, and Yakob’s reflexes weren’t quick enough to even see, let alone catch, the thing that caused his father to gasp suddenly behind him as though in pain.

Instantly, without looking at his father, his hand had snapped back to grab a gun that still hung at Soldat’s waist, and he’d had the safety flicked off and barrel raised to point at Stark’s still open face before Widow had her own gun back up and pointed at him. The captain, the Hulk, and Thor all tensed as well, ready as the others to attack at first sign he would shoot.

Stark raised his hands in the universal sign for surrender, though it wasn’t all that effective when one took into account that even with palms raised, he could have an arsenal of weapons pointed at him without showing it on the outside. So Yakob didn’t trust it one bit – especially because the man didn’t look nervous or scared as one normally would when staring down the barrel of a gun. Even Iron Man couldn’t survive a bullet to his unprotected face.

“I didn’t hurt him, kid,” Stark said reassuringly, but still with infuriating calm. “Look – EMP to the arm. It was hurting him, right? I shut off the receptors sending the pain signals to his brain with the little button I shot to his arm.”

“Soldat?” Yakob requested for confirmation.

“It doesn’t hurt anymore, Yakob,” Soldat backed up Stark’s claims, but it was the way it was said more than the actual words that convinced him. No one could fake that level of relief if they were still in agony – not even the Winter Soldier.

Without another moment of doubt, trusting his father, he clicked the safety back on the gun and let his arm fall back to his side. He nodded a wordless thanks to Stark, and the others relaxed once more. Widow still looked wary, but he knew that Russian assassins were naturally suspicious, and she’d relaxed enough that Yakob was relatively certain that he wouldn’t suddenly be shot at or attacked.

“This is cause for much feasting and celebration!” Thor suddenly boomed, and Yakob would have jumped were he a normal person, and not trained to keep his emotions – including being startled – under wraps.

Thor clapped his hand on the captain’s shoulder, continuing, “The good captain’s friend has returned to us, and bears the wonderful news of a son! Come, we must dine and share stories with one another!”

“I find it’s best to just go along with it when Thor wants food,” Stark said to Yakob and Soldat, loud enough that everyone else could hear as well. He pressed something on his armor, or at least Yakob assumed he did, because it suddenly opened to allow him to step out, revealing that he was wearing nothing more than a tank top and a pair of sweats. Yakob found himself unsurprised – the others were casual as well, because clearly no one had been expecting visitors.

“JARVIS, will you order us some Thai?” Stark requested. “Ooh, or should it be Chinese? You know what, order both, and get extra egg rolls. While you’re at it, throw in some pizza – I think fourteen should be enough – you know the ratio of large pepperonis and veggie pizzas. Just have it sent right up to the penthouse.”

“Shall I add some drinks as well, sir?” The voice suddenly came from the speakers above them, and Yakob tightened his hand around the gun still in his hand, not having known that another was there.

“I do not need your sass, Jarvis, I get that enough from Bruce.” Tony snarked. “And yes – get some sodas, now that you’re asking.”

“As you wish, sir.” Although the words were compliant enough, even Yakob could hear the sarcasm intended behind it, and he didn’t even know the man.

“Oh, you don’t know Jarvis!” Stark said as though remembering, taking in his tense posture. “Don’t worry – you’ll learn all the ins and outs of the tower soon enough – let’s go to the common area and chat. After all this, I need some alcohol, ‘cause this is some serious shit to take in and I want to hear more.”

...

The ‘feasting’ wasn’t much of a celebration, as Thor had expected.

Thor had talked excitedly for the first several minutes, asking the two soldiers numerous questions that they either didn’t answer or answered in as few words as possible. Soldat spoke all of once, letting Yakob speak for the both of them, and his eyes tracked everyone at the large table for sign of threat. He ate a couple of egg rolls before anyone else got to the box holding them, but as soon as someone else had reached in for it, he left it alone. The same held true for Yakob, but his talking gave him a pass that made the lack of eating seem a bit more natural.

The others were quiet, save for Stark, who picked up the slack on talking after Thor fell quiet, realizing that the soldiers weren’t exactly in the sharing mood. But it was alright, because Stark wasn’t asking them questions – Yakob couldn’t say later exactly what he’d been talking about, but it seemed to be about everything and nothing while he kept focused on something on the tablet resting on his knee. Stark was expressive, waving around a slice of pizza or a piece of orange chicken held by chopsticks while he spoke. He seemed completely at ease with the two assassins sitting there at the table, unlike the other members of the Avengers.

The Widow was quiet as she ate, but not in the same awkward way that the rest of them were. She didn’t stare at them, only glancing at them when the conversation permitted it, seemingly at ease now, as opposed to her stance with the gun earlier. But Yakob and Soldat both could recognize the posture of a predator waiting for the moment, for the reason to pounce. She didn’t trust them – and well she shouldn’t. He knew exactly how dangerous they were, and he would have been disgusted if she’d let her guard down after discovering who Soldat really was.

The Hulk was quiet in much the same way, but not in a way that showed how he would attack in a moment. His way of watching seemed to be more defensive than offensive – he would be the one to keep others safe if the assassins were deemed dangerous. He would be the one to keep others back while the Widow kept _them_ back. It was an interesting attitude, but one that Yakob could respect.

The captain did a lot of staring. But, because he didn’t deem it to be malicious, Yakob didn’t glare back when the captain looked between the two of them sitting opposite him. He seemed sad and overjoyed at the same time, though also enormously confused. Knowing what little he did, Yakob supposed it made sense. The captain had thought his best friend dead – had seen him fall from the train, a fall that should have killed him – and suddenly he showed up almost seventy years later with a son at his side, not remembering who he apparently used to be.

James Buchanan Barnes. Or Bucky, for short. Yakob had known that his father had fought in World War II, had been captured near the end of it and unmade for others’ benefit. He’d known, logically, that his father used to be a different man, but it seemed a lot more real when confronted with evidence of this fact. The captain looked at his father like he was finally seeing something familiar, but simultaneously like he didn’t know him at all. Yakob knew enough of facial nuances that he could tell that his father was acting nothing like he had been when the captain knew him.

But, he reasoned with himself, Soldat’s memories returned the more he spent out of the freezer and away from the Chair, so surely his father would return to how he should be soon.

“Got it!” Stark exclaimed, cutting himself off from whatever he’d been rambling on about and sitting up straight in his chair, holding up his tablet with one hand while the other held a piece of Sang Kaya Fug Tong. “Now, it’s going to take a couple of days to make, but the schematics are looking perfect, if I do say so myself – which I do, and I’m always right. Resident genius, here.” He looked up at the two soldiers. “It should be better than the other one – of course, a _lot_ of things would be better than that one, even forgetting the fact that half of it was cut off. Honestly, did they have no respect for true engineering? I could’ve done better when I was six. I _did_ do better when I was six, and I didn’t even have to fuck up the integrity of the engine, not like _your_ boys did with that piece of blasphemy…”

“Tony,” the Hulk interrupted with a patience that clearly came from long practice. “What are you talking about?”

Stark looked surprised that he didn’t know already. “The arm!” he exclaimed, waving the hand holding his food at Soldat’s arm – or the half of it that was still there, with the extra wires and random pieces still hanging out. “That thing is a piece of trash that I never want to see again, Barnes. I can make one a million times better than that one – in fact, I just _did_. It’s just the building part of it that needs to be done now, and you should be good to go with more mobility and less pain. Honestly, what did you guys _think_ I was working on this entire time?”

“And it will not cause him pain?” Yakob demanded, sensing Soldat’s tense form next to him – a stiffness that everyone else, save for perhaps the Widow, would miss.

“Nope,” Stark said easily, taking a bite of his pumpkin. “Although, Barnes’ll need surgery to get the arm currently on him off – it’s been seared literally into his skin, and it’s only thanks to whatever serum is working to have kept him alive this long that it hasn’t just fallen off and ripped the skin around it off with it.” He looked back at Soldat, addressing him now. “That arm was too heavy, which is why you have a spine that’s slightly curved toward your left and probably had a bit of a hard time walking normally. After my new arm gets put on you, your serum should straighten it all out, and you won’t have to deal with _that_ piece of shit again.” He gestured to the half an arm at Soldat’s side.

“Thank you, Stark,” Yakob said sincerely, seeing no artifice in the man and only a desire to help his father.

Stark looked surprised at the gratitude, causing Yakob to briefly wonder how often someone thanked him if he was so surprised when it happened, before Stark waved his hand dismissively.

“It’s nothing, really,” he said. “Call it fascination with a new piece of tech – although I shudder to call that fucked up piece of shit ‘tech’ – and I had an excuse to improve it. Besides, anyone living in the Tower gets nothing except perfection, and like I said before, I’m always right, because I’m a genius, and the new arm will be perfection. Why are you looking at me like that?”

Yakob blinked at him confusedly. “You would allow us…to live here?” He noted that even the other Avengers were looking at Stark in varying degrees of surprise, so he felt a bit better about being surprised himself.

“Well, one of you is Cap’s long-lost BFF,” Stark said casually, and Yakob noted how his shifting eyes illustrated how uncomfortable he was with their attention. “And the other is said BFF’s son, so that’s like…his nephew. Yeah. So I’m not going to kick you guys out just because a few of us are twitchy with a couple more foreign assassins in residence. I mean, we accepted Natasha in our midst. Though, maybe it would be better to say we didn’t argue when she found her way in.” He nodded firmly, as though it sealed his words as true.

“Thank you, Tony,” the captain said, and Yakob glanced over to see his eyes slightly shiny, looking touched.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “Gerade nur schneller gehen” – Just go faster  
> “Es ist nicht schwerer als es selbst zu tun” – It’s not any harder than doing it to yourself  
> “Fick dich” – fuck you  
> “Er ist dem Auftauen – beeile dich.” – he’s thawing; hurry up  
> “Er ist in abschließen” – he’s close  
> “Gut gemacht” – well done  
> “Halt den mund” – hold your tongue
> 
> I imagined this one becoming a Stucky endgame with some Uncle Steve feels for Clint, but do with that what you will.


	5. Steve/Bucky/Sam - Steve has amnesia after the ice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They tell him his name is Steven. Steven Rogers, to be more precise. They say he was found by a passerby in an alley, and the Good Samaritan had called 911. A mugging, they say. All the cash inside his wallet was gone and he was left for dead.
> 
> He remembers none of this.
> 
> He doesn't remember anything.
> 
> But then one day someone walks in to his work, and he can't help thinking...that man looks very familiar.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Before reading this, understand that Steve was pulled out of the ice with no memories. Look at the end notes for where I saw this idea going.
> 
> reposted into this so I could condense my works and because I realized I would probably never continue with this idea.

They tell him his name is Steven. Steven Rogers, to be more precise. They say he was found by a passerby in an alley, and the Good Samaritan had called 911. They tell him that they discovered who he was much easier and more quickly than they usually would unconscious victims that came in because of the wallet with the picture ID card inside sitting right next to him when he was found. A mugging, they say. All the cash inside was gone and he was left for dead.

He remembers none of this. He stares at his ID card, with the picture that looked like him but didn’t _feel_ like him. He traced a finger over the shiny stamp on the card, wondering if he’d liked living in New York. Did he dream of living somewhere else, or did he prefer the noise of Manhattan so close by?

He has no family – they’ve checked, they assure him. His father died in Afghanistan soon after he was born, and his mother died of lung disease when he was eighteen. No brothers, no sisters, no friends – no one was listed as his emergency contact, even. He’d lived in the same apartment for six years, never talking to anybody or sticking out. No one had noticed he’d gone until he missed on his rent, which was apparently a rarity. For all intents and purposes, he is a ghost.

He wishes he had someone to talk to – someone who’d known him, and who he was before he’d lost all of his memories. Maybe with someone familiar they would have been able to come back. But it’s more a faint wish than anything – like someone wishing to fly unattended and knowing it will never happen, so not bothering to hope for it.

He supposes he ought to be more worried than he was about his memory loss, but he can’t bring himself to. Something inside him feels – empty. Like it doesn’t really matter – like _nothing_ really matters.

He knows this is not an attitude someone should have, so he never voices it. He fakes an appropriate amount of worry as the doctors explain how the trauma to his head had likely caused the memory loss, though they aren’t certain, and perhaps he had a mental trauma right before the mugging that enabled the amnesia? Steve doesn’t know, and only nods when they say that the physical injuries have healed during his five week coma.

Even so, perhaps he should be more concerned with the news that an anonymous donor has footed all of his medical expenses. There is a slight sting as something prideful in him raises its head at the news, but he accepts it, because he doesn’t know how he could pay for the no doubt high bills on the artist’s job they tell him he has. Apparently he is a freelance illustrator, and when they show him how to check the balance on his debit card, he sees that he has at least a few thousand dollars to get him by. Knowing that it’s not near enough to pay even a third of his bills, he backs down, even when a voice in the back of his mind grates on him for doing so.

They release him after being sure that there is nothing more they can do for him, that he has to do the rest on his own. He’d bounced back fairly quickly after waking up, his muscles not as weak as most coma patients’ were, so he accepts he doctor’s instructions that he’ll have to go to physical therapy for a couple of weeks just to be sure he’s alright and then promptly forgets it.

Well. Not _forgets_ it, because he has autobiographical retrograde amnesia – where he forgets his past and not how to use his motor functions – not anterograde amnesia. But he definitely doesn’t pay attention to the doctor’s words. Something in him tells him that this – not caring what the doctor has to say – is nothing new. He wonders if he was a troublesome child because of that attitude, before promptly dismissing the thought because he knows he’ll never be able to know that for sure.

He goes back to the apartment listed on his ID, and stays there for all of a week before deciding it’s not the place for him. _Nothing_ feels familiar, and he knows that staying there isn’t helping. And something in him feels sad when he goes out in the neighborhood and down the streets, like he’s missing something more than mere memory loss. So, he makes the decision to leave.

Apparently he owned a motorcycle – yet _another_ thing he doesn’t remember – but it’s muscle memory when he drives it so he supposes he’ll be safe enough. His body knows what to do even when his mind doesn’t. He drives, and keeps driving until he finds a place to stop, a place that feels right.

He stops in D.C., the first place that feels somewhat familiar to him. Perhaps he’d been there before, or maybe he just liked how the Washington Monument looked at night, but he decided to stay there. It’s not even that far from Manhattan, should he ever decide to go back there.

He searches all day, and maybe it’s luck, or maybe it’s fate, but he finds the perfect apartment to stay at shortly before dusk. Okay, so the apartment wasn’t perfect and it didn’t even feel remotely familiar, but he likes the guy who lives across the hall, who chatted with him while he was looking through the apartment. The guy renting out the apartment had left him at the front door, telling him he’d had a bad lunch before running off with a quick comment that he’d be back soon. His now-neighbor had come up just as the landlord was running past, and he’d struck up an easy conversation before going with him through the apartment.

Surprisingly, the conversation wasn’t awkward or stilted. Any of the conversations Steve has tried to have in the past couple of weeks since waking have stalled thanks to his amnesia and not having the faintest clue what to talk about. But the neighbor didn’t let this deter him, and the conversation continued to run smoothly as they went through the empty apartment. Even after Steve is done walking through and hearing of the gossip of other people living there and possible problems with the apartment itself (based on the other guy’s experience with his own mirrored apartment and what he could catch from the previous neighbor), they stand casually at the front door and continue chatting as they wait for the landlord to return.

By the time thirty minutes have passed and the landlord finally comes back, Steve decides to move into this apartment purely so that he’ll have Sam Wilson as his neighbor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My idea was that SHIELD figured out he had no memories and set up the whole farce of a mugging so that they could contain state secrets. They sent Steve out into the world, but they left spies around him in case he ever remembered. Some time, Bucky breaks free of Hydra (I never decided if it was because of his doings or one of the Avengers becoming involved) and when Bucky comes into Steve's workplace they both recognize each other but neither really know how they know each other (because obviously why would you forget the attractive specimen in front of you). Steve finds himself attracted to Bucky and Bucky likewise so he continues to come in to where Steve works, just to see him. Steve however is conflicted, because he has a great boyfriend named Sam Wilson but why does he have such deep feelings for this "James"? (He of course doesn't remember that he and Bucky were together before the War.) Eventually they figure out how to become a polyamorous relationship and not only do Bucky and Steve help each other remember, but Sam is kind of freaking out internally because why do his boyfriends look like famous war heroes? And what are those people doing that always seem to be following his boyfriends around? Spies are supposed to be inconspicuous, but he's sure he's seen that blond guy with the ratty dog before...
> 
> So, clearly big ideas. Feel free to take them all.


	6. IM1 Cave AU - Stony

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What if Steve was in the cave with Tony when he was kidnapped in Afghanistan?

Tony came to in incredible pain.

It was all over – in his arms, his head…but mostly his chest.

Memories returned to him like snapshots – brief moments of awareness of excruciating _pain_ and the smell of dirt and stone. Someone, cutting into his chest, blood everywhere and a grinding sound as something metal was forced into his ribcage.

Gasping with the memory of pain as well as the still-present ache, he sat up from where he was lying on what he thought was a cot but was too out of it to confirm.

“Hey, you need to stay lying down,” a deep voice broke through the pain. A large hand touched his shoulder, and Tony almost gasped at the pain of it. The guy jerked his hand back quickly but didn’t stop talking.

“You’re still healing – that’s going to take a while. Just take it easy.”

Tony panted, looking through bleary eyes at the man above him, bright blue eyes watching him with worry and alarm. Through the pain, he couldn’t even make sense of how attractive the blond Adonis in front of him was.

“What’s – healing…” Tony stammered, cloudy mind trying to make sense of everything around him. “Where am I?”

“Afghanistan,” the man said, his mouth set in a grim line. “I heard them talking – they caught you after a weapons demo. That was four days ago.”

“Four days…” Tony panted through the pain in his chest. “How…there was a bomb. Shrapnel – in my chest…What the _hell_ is _this_ thing?” He looked at the metal circle in his chest, the bandages over it, the wire leading from it to what was clearly a car battery.

“Another man performed surgery on you,” the blond informed him, expression tight. “I don’t – really understand it all. Some kind of magnet, to keep the shrapnel from reaching your heart. The battery is powering it. He said it should last you until you can create something more portable.”

“And this…man,” Tony said slowly, glancing around the space that was empty but for the two of them. “Where is he? If he fixed… _this_ …shouldn’t he be the one to make sure the – _surgery_ – went fine?”

The man’s mouth flattened to a line. “You would think,” he agreed. “Once he was done operating, they killed him. Said he was too much liability.”

Tony’s heart clenched, but he shoved aside the guilt for later, when he could more properly examine and care for it.

“And you?” he demanded. “Why didn’t they kill you? What do _you_ bring to the table?”

Something flickered in the man’s eyes, there one moment and gone the next, so that Tony couldn’t be certain that he had truly seen it after all.

“I don’t know,” he said. “I’m just a guy who happens to be pretty strong.”

Tony let his gaze roam over the muscles so clearly on display. The man was wearing a dirtied once-white wife beater and some dark blue pants that appeared to be made of some kind of Kevlar but still hugged all of those glorious thigh muscles that he would definitely appreciate more in any other situation other than the one he was currently in. The tank pulled tightly across his abdomen, leaving the full sight of pecs and abs on display. Yes, in any other situation he would definitely be hitting on that.

But right now, he had no time to think about that. He had to focus on a way of getting out of here.

“Alright, then,” Tony said. “Well, I can’t keep referring to you as ‘Adonis’ in my head, so mind telling me your name?”

Interestingly, the guy’s cheeks flushed pink at the comment. But then he blinked, seeming to shake himself, and glanced at the security camera in the corner.

“I can’t tell you in case they hear,” he said lowly. “I don’t know if those have sound attached, too. But…I suppose you can call me Steve.”

“Steve,” Tony repeated, tasting the word on his tongue. Something niggled at the back of his mind, like he was forgetting something important, but he shoved that away for now. He could ponder on whatever he was missing later.

“Alright then, Steve,” he said. “Wanna help me brainstorm a plan to get us out of this hellhole?”


End file.
